


and all this devotion

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Angst Only Fluff, Only One Bed, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Castiel, canonverse, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Dean’s not stupid. He’s seen the looks Cas has aimed his way, when Cas thought he wasn’t paying attention. He’s leveled his share of looks back at Cas when the angel’s attention was elsewhere. More than once, he’s been caught in the act. At this point, they’re both dancing around the same elephant, too scared and caught in their ways to make the first move.OR:Dean gets hurt on a hunt. Cas takes care of him. There's only one bed. Confessions ensue.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 75
Kudos: 619





	and all this devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> A long time ago, I set up a poll as a thank you for my followers on tumblr, which allowed them to pick three tropes. The tropes which won were Hurt/Comfort, Bed-sharing, and Touch-Starved. Hopefully I've done justice to the tropes as well as my lovely followers. Terribly sorry it took so long. 
> 
> A shoutout has to be given to [kittimau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau), who talked me through my various problems and who was kind enough to read this and say "No, it's not complete trash". I owe you one, or a dozen. <3

*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Castiel forgets sometimes, just how fragile humans are. 

He’s spent too much time around angels, too much time around Jack, and too much time around the Winchesters, who, though they enjoy mimicking indestructibility, are all too vulnerable. 

He’s reminded of this as he watches Dean go down, his leg cracking like a cannon. 

It was supposed to be a quick mission,  _ something to work the kinks out,  _ Dean said, but somehow, it went horribly wrong. Perhaps their reflexes have slowed as they’ve been shoved into a world which needs their help less and less. Perhaps age is a factor, one which Castiel, as well as Dean, is now subject to. Perhaps impending extinction has forced monsters to become smarter, quicker, more ruthless. Evolution tends to bring out the best, or in this case worst, traits of a species. 

Whatever the reason, the rawheads move fast, which leads to more of a fight than either Dean or Castiel were expecting. In order to exterminate the rawheads, Castiel finds himself drawing upon his limited reserves of grace. It’s an efficient way of taking care of the problem, though his grace is no longer an inexhaustible resource. Eventually, he will tire, but until that time, he is a formidable foe. These monsters are cunning, however, and quickly decide that only annihilation lays in his direction. 

Instead, they focus their attention upon Dean, and therein lie the seeds of disaster. 

Castiel’s first mistake is to focus on the rawheads threatening him. He should be looking out for Dean. He should remember that Dean is human, and an aging human at that, he should always make Dean his foremost concern. He doesn’t, and for a moment, it seems as though he might be able to get away with his dereliction of duty. Then he hears it. The crunch and snap of a joint pushed beyond its endurance and then Dean’s howl. 

_ “Dean!”  _ The name rips out of his throat, torn from the deepest part of him. He turns around just in time to watch Dean crumple, ankle bent at an awkward, unnatural angle. Dean’s taser falls from his nerveless fingers, clattering across the ground to come to a stop a few feet away. The two remaining rawheads hiss in delight, saliva dripping down their chins. 

Fury blazes through Castiel. How dare these creatures touch Dean, how  _ dare  _ they hurt him. Dean is precious, Dean is  _ his-- _

Though he might be diminished from his former glory, Castiel still moves faster than a human. One hand is already extended, the remaining sparks of his grace guttering valiantly as he lays his head against the desiccated skin stretched across the rawhead’s skull. Power surges through him. It’s nothing close to what he formerly possessed, but it’s more than enough to finish the job. Light blazes through the creature’s mouth and eyes, and an otherworldly wail sounds through the small clearing. Castiel turns away, already disinterested. 

The remaining rawhead looks back and forth between him and Dean, obviously weighing its options. Castiel watches it. It’s demise is certain, but he doesn’t want the creature any closer to Dean than possible. 

The rawhead, obviously deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, runs towards the break in the small copse of trees. It’s a smart maneuver, one intended to keep it alive, and were its opponent anyone other than Castiel, it might have succeeded. 

Castiel’s grace might be more of a party trick than a force to be reckoned with, but it’s enough. Within the blink of an eye, he’s in front of the rawhead, blocking its escape. It growls at him, shredded lips pulling back from rotten teeth, but Castiel ignores the threat. 

He presses his taser to the soft flesh underneath the rawhead’s jaw and presses down on the trigger. Thousands of volts of electricity travel from the taser directly through the monster. It starts to shake, howls of pain escaping its clenched teeth. Castiel ruthlessly pushes down on the trigger, never releasing even as the stench of burnt skin assaults his nostrils. 

The rawhead stops screaming before it drops to the ground. Its body still twitches from the overload of electricity, but a swift probe from his grace tells Castiel of its passing. He stands over the body for a moment, righteous vengeance coursing through him, before he remembers--

_ Dean.  _

He moves to Dean’s side. Where he’d moved within the space of a blink before, Castiel now feels unwieldy and awkward, his feet getting tangled in his legs. He falls to his knees, the thin fabric of his slacks tearing against the unforgiving ground. Blood flows from the injured skin of his knee, but Castiel only has eyes for Dean. 

Dean forces a smile, but the lines around his mouth and eyes are tight with tension. Sweat beads along his forehead and his face is at least two shades paler than normal. Barely restrained trembles shake through his body and Castiel can tell it’s taking every bit of Dean’s willpower not to clutch at his injured leg. 

“Let me see,” he orders. No matter how many times he’s seen it before, witnessing Dean’s injuries is a burden to which he’ll never become accustomed. He has to take a deep breath to calm himself; his anxiety will do Dean little good. 

“Cas, buddy, it’s fine. I’ll last until we get to the bunker, just give me a boost.” 

Castiel tilts his head up to hide the rolling of his eyes. Hunters in general tend to be dismissive of their injuries, but the Winchesters are a breed unto themselves. He passes his hand over Dean’s leg, grace gathering in the palm of his hand and curling outward. 

He can’t get a genuine feel for the wound; the only sensation he gets is just the general idea of  _ pain.  _ Castiel tries to force life into his sluggish grace, but it just swirls around his hand, belligerent and generally useless. It’s already been pushed to its limits from the fight with the rawheads. Caught without an easy solution, Castiel examines his surroundings, while trying not to focus on Dean’s quick, harsh breaths. 

They’d chased the rawheads out of the city and into the surrounding wilderness. At the time, Castiel had been relieved; less civilians meant less injuries. But now, with Dean slumping into him, shaking from pain, and no immediate relief in sight, panic starts to clutch at his heart. They’re alone. There are no Rangers and no Impala to chauffeur them back to safety. He brings out his cellphone, only to be greeted by the glaring  **NO SERVICE** warning. He shoves it back into his coat pocket, rolling his eyes. Typical human technology, to fail when it’s most needed. 

He spends another useless moment wishing for the wings which he hasn’t had in years. If he had his wings, then there would be no problem; he could fly Dean to the nearest hospital. If he had his full store of grace at his command, then even that would be unnecessary. He could heal Dean with a simple touch. But both of those are lost to him, never to return. 

Instead of wishing for what he doesn’t have, Castiel needs to concentrate on the realities of his situation. Right now, he has himself, and an increasingly in pain hunter, who, even now, is trying to struggle to his feet. 

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, trying and failing to rise. His good leg refuses to support the whole of his weight, and when Dean tries to put his bad leg down, he yelps and collapses back to the ground. Still, within seconds he’s trying to rise. 

Until he met Dean Winchester, Castiel never understood how people could strangle each other and call it love. He understands a bit better now. 

“Damn it, Dean,” he grunts. Since it’s obvious that Dean is determined to move from this spot, and nothing Castiel says will sway him, Castiel opts for the best option. He slides his shoulder underneath Dean’s arm, supporting the bulk of the hunter’s weight as they rise. 

They take several halting steps forward before it becomes clear that even this method of travel isn’t feasible. Dean can’t move without at least dragging his bad foot along the ground. Each time he does so, he whimpers with pain. At this rate, they won’t make it out of the clearing let alone the forest. Not to mention that every one of Dean’s pained gasps strikes directly at Castiel’s heart. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Ignoring Dean’s protests, Castiel dips down, sliding his arm underneath Dean’s knees. When he straightens, he holds Dean in his arms, the hunter’s body cradled against his chest. While Dean is not an insignificant burden, he is one which Castiel is plenty strong enough to bear. 

Dean bats at his chest, though the blows are light and meant to show Dean’s displeasure with the situation. “Put me down, you insane weirdo,” he hisses. A tension beyond the pain threads through Dean’s voice. Concerned, Castiel looks down at him. 

Dean refuses to meet his eyes. His eyes flicker between looking out into the forest, as though to pretend none of this is happening, or focusing on Castiel’s chest, as though to hide from the world. “This is the easiest option,” Castiel tells him, sighing internally as he readies himself for an argument. While he doesn’t think Dean will capitulate to logic, there’s always a first time for everything. 

It’s a mark of just how much energy it costs Dean to cling to consciousness that he doesn’t try to argue. He sighs, grumbles something under his breath, which Castiel also makes no effort to hear, and leans back into Castiel’s chest. One hand loosely grips the lapel of Castiel’s coat as Castiel starts to walk forward. 

With that worry out of the way, Castiel focuses on his next concern. They need to find shelter for the night. If he allows himself enough time to rest, then his grace will replenish itself enough for a mediocre healing. It’s not a perfect solution, but it will at least get them back to civilization. Getting back to the Impala and the dubious comforts of their motel room tonight would be best, but Castiel doubts he can carry Dean that far. Though he’s stronger than any human, his strength and durance does have limits. 

“Ranger cabin.” 

Dean’s voice is so thin, that at first Castiel doesn’t hear him. Dean has to repeat himself, tugging at his coat for extra emphasis. “There should be a Ranger cabin nearby. You find them out here, places where the Rangers or hikers can stay if they get caught out in the open…” 

“Good. That’ll work. Where do you think we could find one?” 

Dean grunts, trying to look around. The sparse stars overhead provide them little illumination. More than once, Castiel barely manages to avoid tripping over an upturned stone or tree root. “Well, I can’t see shit now, but they’re usually off the main trail. Look for a tree with a yellow triangle on it.” 

As instructions go, they’re typically vague, but Castiel does as Dean requests. His eyes are better in the dark than Dean’s, and he keeps them peeled for any marks along the tree trunks, as well as any unforeseen dangers. It takes him a few more minutes walking along the path before he spots it: a solid tree, standing at the fork of a path, marked with a yellow triangle. 

“I’ve found it,” he tells Dean. His remark goes unnoticed and when Cas ducks his head down to look, he finds Dean either asleep or unconscious against his chest. “Dean!” he barks, jostling Dean slightly. 

Dean comes back into awareness with a low groan of pain and irritation. “What the hell, Cas?” he snaps. “Easy on the goods!” 

“I’m sorry,” Cas apologizes, “but you need to stay awake and alert.” 

“That’s for concussions, not bum ankles,” Dean grumbles, but he doesn’t argue any further as Castiel ventures down the path. 

It takes less time than he would have imagined, but more time than he would like, to reach the small cabin. Nestled in a clearing, it’s smallish, probably only one room inside, but it’s adequate for Castiel’s needs. The windows are dark, which fills him with relief. When he tries the door, he finds it unlocked. 

The air in the cabin is thick with neglect. Castiel wrinkles his nose, and the thick dust in the air prompts a sneeze from Dean. Still, any port in a storm, as humans like to say. His eyes pick out the shape of a bed in the corner. 

It’s a delicate process, to put Dean down on the bed, and Castiel takes his time about it. He bends his knees so that he’s not dropping Dean from a height and slowly pulls away. Dean’s fingers remain tangled around the lapel of his coat for several long seconds, making the separation even more painful. Finally, it’s over, and Dean is sprawled over the bed. Castiel straightens and feels bereft. 

“I’m going to look for medical supplies and food. I’ll be right back,” he tells Dean, and gets a vague hand waved in his direction for an answer. 

Electricity is too much to hope for, but Castiel does find several gas lamps. With a flick of his lighter, they flare to life, providing a faint glow around the cabin’s interior. With that to aid him, he’s also capable of finding the first aid kit located atop the refrigerator. The wood stove in the kitchen is capable of heating the room as well as cooking, and a few more minutes searching yields a few cans of soup. It’s no feast, but it’ll do for a night. 

Though he’s fairly impervious to temperature changes, Castiel can still feel the chilliness of the air prickling across his skin. He starts a fire in the wood stove, confident that heat will flow through the cabin within a matter of minutes. That being done, he returns to Dean. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, settling down at the foot of the bed. 

“Awesome,” Dean answers, a little sourly. At Castiel’s sharp look, he slumps back into the pillows with poorly concealed ill-temper. “My ankle hurts like hell and I’m about to freeze my nuts off.” Now that Castiel looks, he sees that Dean is restraining himself from shivering, clenching his fingers in the musty fabric of the quilt atop the bed. 

“Well, I put a fire on, so you should be warmed up before too long. As for the ankle…” Castiel gently pulls Dean’s foot into his lap, ignoring the muffled sound coming from the head of the bed. His fingers make short work of Dean’s laces as he loosens them enough to slide the boot off of Dean’s foot without tugging too much on his hurt ankle. 

“Cas, you really don’t have--” 

“Let me do this,” Castiel interrupts him, as he drops the boot to the ground. It lands with a dull thump and Castiel is already working at Dean’s sock, slightly damp and clammy with sweat. Dean shifts as he makes a soft noise of embarrassed protest, but Castiel ignores it. Humans are so caught up in unimportant worries about the natural workings of their bodies, and Dean is no exception. 

Castiel also makes short work of Dean’s other boot, which comes off easier than the first. With Dean’s boots and socks off, Castiel can more thoroughly explore his injured ankle. He probes around the swollen flesh with gentle fingertips, skirting over where he can see a bruise forming. He skims his fingers over the bone, breathing a soft sigh of relief. 

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he tells Dean, “but it’s a very nasty sprain.” 

“Awesome,” Dean pants. His white-knuckled grip twists the fabric of the quilt to the point where Castiel worries for its structural integrity. Dean’s lips pull back in a grimace, revealing clenched teeth. 

Castiel wraps his fingers around the knobby bone of Dean’s ankle and focuses his grace into the skin and surrounding muscle. His grace lurches through him, but it’s exhausted and sluggish. Warmth gathers in his fingertips and he pushes as much of it as he can into Dean’s skin. 

The little he gives seems to help, however, as Dean sighs and relaxes back into the pillow. His foot goes limp in Castiel’s lap. “That feels good,” he murmurs. Dean’s eyes snap open with enough surprise to let Castiel know his admission was involuntary. A little mournful jolt works through him. They’ve been friends for so long, yet Dean still can’t even express gratitude for a simple healing without feeling uncomfortable. 

Castiel pushes his emotions aside, a pastime with which he’s all too accustomed. “It’s not much, but it should be enough to alleviate the worst of the pain.” 

Dean’s skin is warm underneath his fingers. He can almost feel pain throbbing just underneath the surface. Shame filters through him. He can’t perform the simplest of tasks, can’t heal Dean of the most minor of injuries. 

“I should wrap your ankle and try to stop the worst of the swelling.” There were several bandages in the medical kit which will serve the purpose nicely. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but bandaging Dean’s ankle will also help alleviate some of the guilt and shame. It’s a simple task, but one which will provide comfort. 

He hadn’t figured on the restrictions of Dean’s jeans. 

He pushes at the hem and manages to get it halfway up Dean’s calf, which still doesn’t provide him enough room to work comfortably. He tries to fold the hem up and still reaches only the same spot. He’s in the middle of trying a new combination of rolling and folding when Dean finally jerks his foot away. 

“It’s not going to work. Here, move for a second, would you?”

Castiel slides further back on the bed, uncertain of Dean’s intentions. When Dean easily thumbs open his belt, an uncomfortable bolt of heat jolts through Castiel, settling at his core. 

He turns his head away, though that as well feels awkward, as though refusing to witness the act makes it taboo. Castiel knows, however, that it would be worse to look at Dean, worse to look into his face or, Heaven forbid, at his waist, and there see everything which he’s coveted and everything which he’s foregone. 

The jangle of Dean’s belt buckle is absurdly loud in the small confines of the cabin, as are the sounds of fabric scraping across skin. Dean grunts and the mattress shifts. The blankets churning near Castiel’s hip. Castiel feels as though his skin is aflame, heat spreading across his cheeks and the back of his neck. His imagination is all too gleeful to fill in details: the fair skin revealed, the light trail of hair at Dean’s waistband leading downward, the subtle upward lift of Dean’s hips as he slides the jeans down his legs, the bow of his legs revealed in all its glory. 

Castiel clenches his fist on his knee, crumpling the thin material of his slacks between his fingers. He needs to get himself under control, or he’ll be of no use to anyone. 

Dean’s jeans hit the ground with a dull thump. Castiel waits several more seconds, then turns back to face Dean. 

Either in an attempt to maintain some modicum of modesty, or as a buffer against the still pervasive chill of the room, Dean has pulled the quilt up around his waist, shielding his thighs and groin from view. His legs from the knee down are bare and stick out from underneath the quilt. “You should be fine now,” Dean says, a trace of smugness in his voice. 

Castiel takes Dean’s ankle back into his lap and loses himself in his work. He might not be able to heal Dean completely, and he can’t give voice to the dozens of emotions writhing in his chest, but he can provide Dean with comfort. He works silently, winding the bandage around Dean’s ankle, making sure to keep it tight enough to provide relief, but not so tight that it cuts off circulation. 

When he finishes, he pats Dean’s ankle gently, setting it down in his lap. “How are you feeling now?” he asks. He realizes that his fingers are stroking over the lightly haired skin of Dean’s calf at the same time he realizes he doesn’t want to pull away. Dean hasn’t complained, so perhaps his presumptuousness has gone unnoticed. 

“It’s good,” Dean answers, somehow making the words sound sincere instead of conciliatory. “You did a good job.” 

Even though he knows it’s ridiculous, Castiel still nurtures the small glow in his chest. He shouldn’t find nourishment from these scraps of affection; he shouldn’t crave them. He shouldn’t try to steal illicit touches, or rejoice in the quick, warm grip of Dean’s hand against his shoulder, or draw solace from the press of Dean’s arm against his. At the very least, Castiel should do his best to learn to love these moments for what they are, instead of grieving for what they’re not. 

A shiver runs through Dean. Castiel looks at him in worry. “It’s still really cold,” Dean says defensively, folding his arms across his chest.

“There were a few cans of soup in the kitchen. I can heat up one of those for you. The food should help warm you up.” 

“Don’t be stupid. I can heat up a can of soup, you know how much chicken noodle soup I made for Sam--”

“Dean.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s calf, mostly to get him to stop talking, though he does spare a nanosecond to appreciate the muscle underneath his palm. “Please. Let me take care of you.” 

That is something which Dean does not allow. Even when he’s barely conscious, his first thoughts are of Sam, or Jack, or Cas. Never of himself. Castiel despairs of his self-sacrificial habits, yet they’re one of the (many) reasons why he’s chosen to spend the rest of his existence with this man. 

Dean’s facial expressions go on an interesting journey, before he settles somewhere along the lines of disgruntled acceptance. The last of his resistance subsides with a parting shot of, “You sure you’re not going to burn it?” 

Castiel makes an unflattering expression in response. While he excels at many activities (shooting, knife work, drinking, speed-reading), he’ll never be able to count cooking as one of his strengths. After numerous attempts and burned fingers, he can just about manage toast, and, Dean's contrary assertions aside, canned soup.

“I’ll manage,” he says. He reluctantly lifts Dean’s foot off his lap and stands. Without Dean’s skin against his, Castiel understands his shivering. Despite the fire in the woodstove, the air in the cabin is biting cold. He feels it even through the thin shield his grace provides. Goosebumps prickle across his arms and chase themselves up to the back of his neck. 

He feeds more wood to the fire in the stove, hoping to generate more heat, but the fire resists his efforts. All it does is pop and throw off a few more sparks, as if to mock him. Castiel rolls his eyes and starts the soup. 

“I thought we could stay here for the night and set out for the car tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to use my grace to heal you throughout the night. If that works, then you should be healed enough to walk tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean doesn’t sound as enamored with this plan as Castiel expected. He tosses a curious glance over his shoulder. Dean examines the pattern in the quilt with more interest than the linens deserve while refusing to meet his eyes. “I just don’t think you should waste your grace.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but before he can, the soup pops, spattering over the stovetop. Castiel hurries to take it off the heat before he can either boil it all away or, perish the thought, burn it. 

He manages to get the soup into two bowls without too much mishap. Though he doesn’t need much, Castiel has to eat, and with as much grace as he expended earlier, he’ll need to compensate for that loss. The soup isn’t gourmet cuisine, and it's certainly not up to the standards of what Dean makes back at the bunker, but it is warm and filling. He eats with Dean, perched at the end of the bed, while Dean stays propped up at the head of the bed. 

Dean finishes his soup. Without thinking, Castiel takes his bowl and places it in the sink. Tomorrow morning, he’ll take care of their dirty dishes. 

“So, uh...where are you spending the night?” 

Castiel considers Dean’s question. He hadn’t thought about it, but now that he looks, he has to admit the furniture around the cabin is...sparse. Dean is already occupying the cabin’s only bed. Other than that, there’s a small table in the kitchen area, two rickety chairs, and...That’s it. It makes sense, when Castiel thinks about it; the Rangers who use this cabin don’t intend to spend long hours here. 

Castiel wraps his hands around the back of a chair. “I suppose I’ll just sit quietly,” he says, smiling at the memory which those words invoke. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s a line that’s not getting any better with age. Seriously, dude. You need to sleep. You get grumpy when you don’t.” 

“My grace can’t sustain my vessel--me--like it used to,” he says, feeling oddly defensive. “It needs rest.” 

“You,” Dean interrupts, more kindly than Castiel would have expected. “You need rest.” 

Castiel lifts a shoulder, suddenly irritable. “At the moment, you need it more than I do. I’ll be fine.” 

Dean frowns. “Not convincing.” 

At an impasse, they lock eyes. Unsurprisingly, Dean is the first one to look away. More surprisingly, he shifts to one side of the bed, leaving a strip of mattress open. When Dean flips back a corner of the quilt in unspoken invitation, Castiel feels his heart stutter. 

“Your old man bones aren’t going to be able to cope with staying in that chair all night. You’ll be all creaky in the morning.” Dean tries to hide his grin, but the corners of his mouth twitch with his obvious amusement. Castiel glowers but can offer no counterargument. In every single way, he’s older than Dean, and sometimes, he feels the weight of every year. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


Dean watches Cas (not like it’s a hardship; watching Cas is a pastime of which he’ll never tire). Cas is standing in the middle of the room, and his hands are doing that weird little dance they do whenever Cas is feeling uncertain over something. If it were anyone else, he would call it fidgeting, but of course, Cas doesn’t do anything as undignified as fidget.  _ Shift gracefully from place to place without a change in location,  _ is probably how Cas would describe it. Weirdo. 

If he has to hop out of this bed and drag Cas into it by his stupid tie, then that’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

There’s an element of self-preservation within his rationale: if Cas spends all night sitting in that shitty chair, then he’ll be cranky the next morning, and a cranky Cas is straight from the bowels of Hell. 

But more than that, is his concern for Cas. Cas might try to downplay it and hide it, but Dean’s not an idiot. He knows that Cas needs sleep now, same as he needs food. Dean has a complicated relationship with sleep, and he spends long hours wandering the halls of the bunker after everyone is supposed to be asleep, which means he catches more than the other residents think he does. Jack’s late night cereal obsession, for one. Sam’s weird attempts at phone sex, which he’s doing his best to scrub from his brain. And he catches Cas, sneaking hours of sleep. 

Oh, Cas is good, he’ll give him that, snatching hours here and there, so stealthily that Dean doesn’t think Jack and Sam realize how much he’s actually sleeping. Cas is the last one to turn in and the first one awake. He thinks Dean doesn’t notice the circles deepening under his eyes, or that they go through exponentially more food than they did a year ago. Cas hasn’t quite reached the stage of buying hair dye in order to hide his silvering temples, but Dean has no doubt that, if matters are allowed to continue in this fashion, they’ll reach that moment sooner rather than later. And if it came from a place of vanity, then he would try to accept it (no matter that he loves the few grey hairs which have crept into Cas’ stubble and sideburns), but Cas is trying to hide these new quirks out of a misplaced sense of shame, which rubs Dean entirely the wrong way. 

The loss of Cas’ grace was both gradual and expected. Without Chuck around, it was inevitable that it would start to fade, turning Cas slowly mortal. And Cas doesn’t seem to mind so much for his sake (though he was whiny the first time he threw his back out) but rather because he can no longer perform the small miracles to which they’d grown accustomed. The first time he tried to heal Dean and came up with nothing more than a faint fizzle of grace, he had an expression of horror on his face which would have been comic if it weren’t so tragic. 

Ever since that moment, Cas has pitched his tent firmly in the camp of denial, and Dean’s getting tired of it. Come to think of it, he’s been getting tired of a lot of things lately. Mostly, how it’s been over twelve years, and he and Cas can’t seem to break free of their holding pattern, minus any actual holding. 

“It’s like you’re platonic life partners,” Sam said, thereby ensuring that Dean didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. Sam wasn’t  _ wrong  _ but that didn’t mean Dean didn’t want him to be. He wants more from Cas than just a friendly shoulder touch or, if he’s very lucky, a brush of fingers against the back of his hand. 

And then, lo and behold, the ranger’s cabin with one bed happened to plop straight into his lap. Maybe he’s seen one too many Dr. Sexy marathons, but to Dean, this feels like the answer to all his prayers.  _ There’s only one bed,  _ oh no, what will they do? 

Dean’s set the board as well as he can. Now all that remains is to see whether or not Cas will take the bait. 

For a creature made up of grace and divine intent, Cas takes his sweet ass time making a decision. Finally, after the earth circles the sun about fifty more times, Cas steps forward. His fingers pluck at the lapels of his coat, like he’s not quite sure whether he should remove it or not. Fortunately for Cas, Dean is puffed up with an unearned sense of confidence. 

“Lose the coat, Cas, were you raised in a barn?” 

Cas lifts a deliberate eyebrow, the one that never fails to turn Dean’s innards into a quivering pile of jelly. He hides the subtle tremor of his hands by placing them flat against the quilt; if Cas notices, he can always blame the cold of the room. 

He knows he’s dancing around the edges of something potentially dangerous. He’s known it since he slid his jeans off with Cas less than a foot away. It seems ridiculous, after spending years fantasizing about the perfect moment, that it could just happen in an abandoned cabin somewhere in the wilderness of Idaho. Cas shrugs out of his coat with an easy flick of his shoulders, and suddenly, Dean doesn’t care so much about the absurdities of life. 

He tries to look away and afford Cas the same modesties which Cas extended to him, but Dean’s only a man. He watches as Cas sets his coat across the chair, before unlacing his shoes and toeing out of them. The suit jacket is the next garment to come off, followed by the tie. 

Seeing Cas in nothing more than his shirt and slacks is treat enough; Dean would be happy with that. But Cas goes further and starts to work at the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them with simple, deft swipes of his thumbs. Dean’s cock, never one to ignore opportunity, starts to swell against his inner thigh, and he has to repress the urge to rub the heel of his hand against it. 

When Cas’ slacks join the small pile of clothing, Dean has to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. It’s more than he could have imagined, Cas walking towards him, still in socks (Cas has a weird thing about his bare feet touching unfamiliar floors; he won’t even go barefoot in the bunker, and at this point Dean has given up trying to understand why), and wearing an undershirt and his boxers. He pauses at the side of the bed, and Dean has the horrible thought that Cas is going to manage to talk himself out of this, but then Cas’ knee hits the mattress. 

The mattress itself has seen better days. It sags in the middle and creaks as Cas joins him. The bed itself was never intended for two grown men to share. No matter how they arrange themselves, they’re still an awkward tangle of knees, elbows, and arms. Not that Dean minds, but Cas is starting to get that look he gets when his calculations have been wildly incorrect, nostrils flaring and jaw tightening. Back in the day, he used to get that look just before he flapped his way out of any situation which threatened to become uncomfortable. He can’t do that anymore, but he could still very much decide that an uncomfortable chair beats a crowded bed, so Dean goes for his Defcon-Four maneuver, the one guaranteed to settle any argument. 

He twists to lay on his side, ignoring the faint stab of pain radiating from his ankle as it catches against the blankets. He lays with his back towards Cas, a faint tremble shaking through him at the thought of not being able to see him. For one quiet moment, the world holds its breath, then the mattress shifts as Cas turns, exhibiting much more grace than Dean. 

The change in positioning is electrifying. Cas’ knees press into the backs of his thighs, while Cas’ elbows knock against his back. Dean clenches his fists to stop himself from shaking, almost drunk on the nearness of him. He gets the feeling, once again, that he and Cas are hovering on the edge of something enormous. It could go so badly, but. But it could also be glorious. 

“You’re shaking,” Cas notes. The warm puff of his breath washes over the back of Dean’s neck, raising the fine hairs there. Dean shivers. 

“Maybe you didn’t notice, but it’s fucking cold.” It is cold, but it doesn’t explain the huge jolts juddering through his frame. Thank god he’s lying down. At least this way he can hide the worst of it. 

Cas doesn’t say anything in response, which Dean expected. What he wasn’t expecting is for Cas to move forward, his back pressing firmly against Dean’s chest. Dean tenses, his breath catching in his chest, as Cas’ arm slides over his waist to pull him even closer. 

“Better?” Cas asks, like this is  _ normal,  _ like friends casually spoon each other all the time. 

Hell, maybe they do, it’s not like Dean has a lot of experience in the area. His heart is hammering in his chest so quickly that it seems facetious Cas hasn’t mentioned it. 

“Yeah.” Dean swallows hard to control the wavering pitch of his voice. “Yeah, that’s good.” 

Cas is a furnace behind him, radiating warmth through his clothes. That, combined with the weight of the quilt atop him, removes the chill from Dean’s skin fairly quickly. However, neither of those elements can chase away the shakes from anticipation and having everything he’s wanted for over ten years pressed behind him. 

“How’s your ankle?” 

Dean almost laughs. With the shock of Cas being practically naked and spooning him, his ankle is the last thought on his mind. He flexes it gingerly, hissing slightly as a warning tingle of pain zings through him. “Still hurts, but it’s better than it was.” 

Cas hums. Before Dean has the slightest idea of what he’s about to do, Cas presses his palm flat against his stomach. Warmth spreads from Cas’ hand and courses through Dean’s veins until it winds down to his ankle. “Better?” Cas asks, though Dean doesn’t give the slightest shit about his ankle. His attention is seized by the brush of Cas’ nose against the nape of his neck, Cas’ breath blowing warm and humid across his skin, Cas’ hand resting against his chest. 

Cas shifts like he’s preparing to pull away. Dean reaches up, tangling his fingers with Cas’ and pinning their entwined hands to his chest. “Don’t,” he says. Though the word was supposed to be a command, it leaves him as a plea. 

Cas freezes while Dean prepares himself for the inevitable rejection. Cas is going to pull away and apologize in that Cas way he does, where you feel so damn bad for him that you forgive him automatically, but none of that happens. Instead, Cas relaxes, bit by bit, until the whole of his body is molded to Dean’s. Cas’ exhale is a long and shaky breath which rumbles through Dean’s chest. 

They stay like that for long minutes. Cas’ grip around him is tight, as though having received permission from Dean allows him to cling as tightly as he wants. 

Dean’s not stupid. He’s seen the looks Cas has aimed his way, when Cas thought he wasn’t paying attention. He’s leveled his share of looks back at Cas when the angel’s attention was elsewhere. More than once, he’s been caught in the act. At this point, they’re both dancing around the same elephant, too scared and caught in their ways to make the first move. 

Castiel pulls him closer, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Warmth floods through Dean. His whole body goes limp as bliss enfuses him from each point of contact. A sound rises in his throat, almost like a whine, but he doesn’t release it. He just keeps it in his chest and allows it to fizzle into nothingness. 

Cas’ every shift is related to him through a language composed entirely of touch. Cas’ knees press up underneath his thighs while his ankle slips between his calves. Cas’ arm is tight around his waist, while his face presses into Dean’s skin. As much as Dean is gathering comfort from being with Cas, Cas is taking it from holding. 

“You’ve been sleeping more lately,” Dean finally says. His fingers run along the lines of Cas’ wrist, tracing veins and tendons, learning the structure of his bones. 

“Yes.” Cas’ lips bump along his skin, causing shivers to run through Dean. “It’s not as unpleasant as I once thought it would be. Sometimes, it’s even comforting.” 

“There’s a reason we humans are so fond of it,” Dean gently teases. “You should do it more. Maybe you wouldn’t be so grumpy.” 

Cas makes a small noise into his skin, one that sounds like it’s agreeing with him but is trying hard not to. “It’s lonely,” he says. The admission almost breaks Dean’s heart. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” he replies after several long minutes. He stares at the wall, noting the tiny imperfections in the wood grain. His fingers wrap around Cas’ wrist, thumb stroking over the soft skin. “If you don’t want it to be. You could...with me.” 

To fall asleep every night to Cas’ body next to him, to have  _ this  _ every night…

“I’d like that.” It’s all Cas says, but there’s years of emotion behind the words. His lips brush against Dean’s ear. 

Part of Dean wants to roll over and press his lips to every part of Cas he can reach, yet the other part of him is exhausted. He wants to sleep. Besides, now he knows this isn’t a single moment. Now he knows he can have infinite moments and string them together to call it a  _ life.  _

Dean drags their entwined fingers up his chest. Knuckles press against his chin before bumping over his lips. Behind him, Cas shudders. 

“Go to sleep,” is the last thing Dean says, before he closes his eyes and surrenders to the darkness. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Castiel always wakes abruptly. 

He blames his history. He went millions of years without sleeping and he has yet to learn how to do it gracefully. His body recognizes only wakefulness and unconsciousness. The soft haze between the two is lost to him. 

Normally when he snaps his eyes open, the bland, familiar walls of the bunker greet him. This time, however, he wakes in a strange place, which sets his heart to racing. It’s only after a few seconds pass that he remembers the events of the previous night. 

His heart starts racing again, for entirely different reasons. 

He takes in the state of their bodies. Last night, he and Dean fell asleep slotted together, Dean’s chest to his back. They’ve shifted in the middle of the night, Castiel rolling to his back and Dean following him. Dean’s head rests against his shoulder, while Dean’s arm is slung carelessly over his waist. One of Dean’s legs is thrown over his, like Dean was doing his best to stop Castiel from escaping. 

Escape is the furthest thought from Cas’ mind. 

He swallows and dips his head, allowing his nose to brush the tips of Dean’s hair. His right arm is trapped underneath Dean’s body; when he tries to wiggle the fingers on that hand, they’re nonresponsive and numb. Castiel tries to slide it free, but an unhappy murmur from Dean makes him move more cautiously. He just wants to wrap that arm around Dean in order to pull him closer. Dean is already close to him, but he could be  _ closer.  _

His shifting and wriggling rouses Dean out of slumber and into that hazy state of awareness which Castiel has tried, and failed, many times to capture. “Stop it,” Dean slurs into his shoulder. One hand weakly beats at his chest. “‘s too early.” 

Dean pushes and shoves until Castiel rolls over onto his side. He groans in discomfort as blood rushes back into his arm, then stifles the sound as Dean plasters himself against his back in a mirror reversal of their earlier positions. “Go back to sleep,” Dean mumbles, nudging his forehead against the back of Castiel’s neck. 

With that, Dean settles, seemingly content. Castiel envies him his easy relaxation. Their new sleeping arrangements have brought another problem to light, one which Castiel can neither ignore nor wish away. One particular piece of his anatomy has taken an undue interest in Dean’s body pressed against his back, so close that his every breath jostles Castiel. No amount of readjusting serves to make his discomfort disappear. 

It drags Dean’s attention to him once more. “Cas, what the hell?” Dean mumbles, tightening his grip on Cas’ chest. Joy bursts through Cas at the contact, a sensation like falling and flying mingled into one. He desperately wants to escape, so as to avoid discovery. He never wants Dean to let him go.

“I can’t...get comfortable,” he finally says. It’s not technically a lie, and it avoids the real problem. “I think I need to--”

“Ugh, come here.” Dean’s palm presses flat on his stomach, low, too low, Dean’s going to--

Castiel stiffens, sucking in a low breath of horror as Dean brushes against that which he was trying to hide. Pleasure and guilt roll through his body as his hips act beyond his control and thrust upward in a search for sensation. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, clenching his fingers into the starchy sheets. “I didn’t…” 

Dean’s hand passes over his groin again, lingering over his half-hard cock, stirred into interest by their positioning and the intoxicating nearness of Dean. This time, his touch is too exploratory to be anything but deliberate. Castiel digs his teeth into his lower lip to fight back a whimper as Dean’s fingertips ghost over the head of his dick. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers against the back of his neck, something unknowable in his voice. “You’re hard.” He runs his knuckles up and down Castiel’s hardening length, and he can’t help but keen, thrusting his hips upward to chase the sensation. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel pants, digging his fingernails into the pillow. He wants to cling to Dean’s arm, wants to rut back into him, but he forces himself to still. “I didn’t mean--” 

“Whoa. Hold on.” Dean pulls away, and rejection drops like a stone into the pit of Castiel’s belly. He bites back his low moan of loss and curls further into himself. Without Dean pressing against him, his back feels cold and exposed, and he has to dig his fingernails into his palm to stop himself from reaching back for Dean. 

“Cas.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, his fingers blunt and strong. “It’s okay. I mean. I thought…” Dean’s voice is uncharacteristically shy, which prompts Castiel to crane his head over his shoulder to get a good look at Dean’s face. “I thought you wanted me,” Dean finally admits. Through the dim light, Castiel can see Dean rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“I do,” Castiel whispers, laying bare the secret which has lain at the heart of him for too many years to count. “Dean, of course I do.” He defies  _ anyone  _ to look at Dean and not want him. 

“Then why?” 

There’s more behind that question, but Castiel can understand it well enough. “Because, we haven’t discussed it, and it would be presumptuous for me to--” A finger pressed against his lips stops his rambling. Castiel rejoices at the warm digit pressed into his skin as well as the stoppering of his shame. He’s not usually one for stammering or babbling. He keeps his sentences short and succinct, to the point where Dean laments over his conversational skills. Castiel just doesn’t see the point in long-winded discussions which inevitably turn circular, or in stumbling over his point. Dean, however, manages to turn that on its head. 

“Hey. You want me, right?” Cas nods, and Dean’s finger moves with him. “And, uh, I want you. Pretty much all the time.” Something heady and sharp soars in Castiel’s chest at the admission. Dean’s finger presses his lips against his teeth and it’s all Castiel can do to stop himself from taking the tip of it into his mouth.

All Dean has to do is tug at his shoulder for Castiel to roll over and lie flat on his back. In the darkness, the only part of Dean’s expression he can see is the quick flash of teeth against the darkness, but Dean makes up for it by running his hand down Castiel’s shoulder to grip at his bicep. His other hand rests gently against the side of Castiel’s face, fingertips stroking at the bristle on his cheeks. 

“What did you tell me one time?  _ Don’t make things needlessly complicated as you humans love to do?”  _ Dean’s mocking tone is overwhelmingly fond as he leans closer. “I’m going to kiss you now, all right?” 

Castiel nods, only belatedly realizing Dean can’t see the gesture. “Yes, Dean, that’s--”

Any other words he would have said are cut off by the press of Dean’s lips against his. 

It’s not quite a perfect kiss, certainly not one of the scripted wonders in the TV shows which Dean favors and then pretends that he doesn’t. Dean’s lips land just a little off-center, catching the corner of Castiel’s mouth, but it’s nothing to tilt his head, and then, as easily as that, he’s kissing Dean Winchester. 

There’s a song caught in Castiel’s heart, not a trite human parody of music, but one of the choruses of the Host, from back when Castiel believed in the mission. It sings of  _ glory  _ and  _ praise _ and  _ salvation. _ Castiel never knew the meaning of those words, not until Dean’s hands slide into his hair and Dean shifts to lay next to him. 

“If you don’t want any of this, just tell me,” Dean pants, his breath hot and moist against Castiel’s cheek. He’s so close, the warmth of his body bleeding through his thin shirt as he presses against Castiel. Castiel wants  _ more,  _ he wants it  _ all.  _ His whole, millennia-long existence has been reduced to a simple need for  _ Dean.  _

“That’s not possible,” Castiel tells him, before he drags Dean’s lips back to his. Their noses crash together in a collision more painful than pleasurable. Dean curses, but the sound is lost as Castiel parts his lips in invitation. 

Dean wastes no time, his tongue tracing the edges of Castiel’s mouth before it dips in, flirting with Castiel’s tongue until they’re both panting. Castiel is burning, an inferno raging beneath his skin, and it only increases as Dean moves to straddle Castiel’s hips. 

Castiel shakes. He’s overwhelmed by the sensation of Dean’s fingers carding through his hair, Dean’s tongue snaking through his mouth, Dean’s knees pressed tightly in around his hips, and the slow rocking motion which Dean begins. He gasps against Dean’s mouth. It’s not enough. He needs to be  _ closer.  _ His hands snake up underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt to curve around his ribs. Dean groans and tips his head forward, resting his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. The shift in positioning leaves the lovely skin of Dean’s throat available for Cas to nip and tease, a situation which he takes full advantage of. 

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” Dean pants, craning his head to the side to allow Castiel more room. He shivers as Castiel drags his fingers across his back to drift over his chest. Castiel brushes his thumb over the stiff peak of Dean’s nipple and smiles at the shudder that action garners him. “I used to think how this would be...how  _ you  _ would be…” 

Castiel rubs over Dean’s nipple once more, just to listen to the catch in his breathing. He’s dizzy with Dean’s reactions and with Dean’s actions. Dean’s breath is warm against his chest as his fingers stroke along Castiel’s throat. “Tell me,” Castiel demands, as he nips at Dean’s shoulder. “Tell me what you thought about.” 

“Used to think about showing you the ropes,” Dean tells him. He noses at Castiel’s jaw, an unspoken request, and Castiel tips his head back, allowing Dean greater access to his throat. “Poor little angel, all stuck up in Heaven, you wouldn’t know how to kiss, or touch, or fuck…” He chuckles as he bites his way down to the collar of Castiel’s shirt. “But you don’t need my help with that, do you?” 

Castiel arches as Dean’s hands stroke down his sides to land at the hem of his shirt. Dean drags his hands back up his torso, bumping over his ribs, and Castiel hardly realizes that he’s being divested of his shirt until Dean urges him to sit up. The garment flutters to the ground and is almost immediately forgotten. 

“I watched humanity for thousands of years,” Castiel gasps. Dean’s hands push at his shoulders, pressing him back down, and Castiel obeys. He shifts restlessly, wanting to feel that touch  _ everywhere,  _ but Dean is infuriating, and chooses to kiss a slow path down the center of his chest. “There’s very little about sexual relations which surprises me.” 

Dean digs his chin into Castiel’s diaphragm as he peers up at him. “Yeah, but there’s acing the written and then there’s the practical. And you do a damn good job at the practical.” 

Castiel raises a shaking hand to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair. It’s soft underneath his palm, softer than he would have originally thought. “Come here,” he whispers, sighing happily as Dean rests his weight atop him. Dean’s not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but Castiel bears him easily. He would bear more and worse, if his reward was the ability to map out the angles of Dean’s face with his lips and hands. 

For so long, Castiel was alone. He was a marble statue, cold, impermeable. Then Dean, with a single touch, shattered him. Dean  _ touched _ him, and with that, Castiel’s world was born anew. 

“I want so much from you,” Castiel confides, breathing the words whisper soft into Dean’s lips. “I want to take you apart.” 

Dean shivers and the sensation travels through Castiel’s body. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Yeah, we can do that. But let me take care of you?” He kisses Castiel’s cheek, sweet and soft, as his hand drifts down Castiel’s stomach, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “I wanna make you feel good, Cas. Let me?” 

Castiel has so many ideas of what he’d like to do to Dean, dreams he entertained when he was alone on the road and needed something to while away the long hours. He dreamt about putting his mouth to various parts of Dean’s body and hearing Dean’s whimpers and moans. He dreamt of tracing the lines of Dean’s muscles and putting bruises into the soft parts of Dean. He dreamt of taking Dean apart, piece by piece, only to put him back together at the end of the night. 

But those dreams can wait. For now, he’s more than content for Dean’s fingers to slip beneath the waistband of his boxers and wrap around the straining length of his cock. Castiel gasps, reaching helplessly for Dean to pull him closer. Dean hums a laugh into his chest as he starts to stroke over Castiel’s cock in slow, leisurely movements. Pleasure roars through Castiel’s body until he’s almost tingling with it. 

“No one’s ever touched you like I’m going to,” Dean hisses, biting kisses into the cut of his jaw. “No one’s gonna touch you like I’m going to.” 

Castiel opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to agree, but all that comes out is a low moan. Dean’s smile is broad against his skin as his thumb rubs over the slick head of his cock. The angle is a little awkward, but Dean doesn’t seem willing to move and Castiel doesn’t ever want Dean to move. With Dean’s body pressed against his, Castiel thinks he could die happy. 

“Once we get back to the bunker, we’re doing this again,” Dean whispers, quickening his pace. “We’ll send Sam away and spend hours like this.” His lips caress the shell of Castiel’s ear. “You’re going to feel so good inside me.” 

That sentiment, growled out in Dean’s voice, is enough to send Castiel over the edge. His muscles tense, and then he’s coming, moaning his pleasure into Dean’s skin. Dean kisses him through it, frantic and sweet. “God, you sound so good, feel so good. I’ll never get tired of this, wanna hear you all the time.” 

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer, though he didn’t think that was possible. He sobs out the last part of his release into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, the physical sensation overwhelming his reason. 

Dean shifts, kissing Castiel gently as he comes down from the high. The brush of Dean’s still hard cock against his thigh sends a wave of arousal pulsing through Castiel. The sensation is dizzying, and Castiel clings to Dean, desperate for  _ more. _ Dean groans as Castiel rubs his thigh against him, his hips rutting down in a search for friction. Castiel’s hands smooth down the length of Dean’s back to slip underneath the waistband of his boxers. He cups the firm globes of Dean’s ass in his hands and squeezes, relishing in Dean’s broken cry. 

“For so long I’ve wanted you,” he tells Dean, rolling them to the side. This position gives him the leverage to slide his hand down to close around Dean’s cock. He sets a quick pace, his wrist twisting as he works Dean over. Dean wraps his arms around Castiel, pressing his face into the sweat-tacky skin of Castiel’s chest. 

“I’ve wanted to know what you taste like and what you sound like,” Castiel continues, speaking into Dean’s hair. Every part of his body sings in delight, overwhelmed with sensation. He doesn’t think he’ll ever recover. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to recover. “I’ve wanted to see your face as you allow yourself to fall apart.” 

Dean whimpers, panting against Castiel. His hips thrust into the tight tunnel of Castiel’s hand, helped by the precome leaking steadily from his slit. Castiel allows him to set the pace, content to hold Dean and talk him through his orgasm. “I want to take hours with you, to map every part of your body. I built your body out of stardust and intent, I connected every atom, and  _ still  _ I can’t come close to your glory. I’ll never tire of watching you, I’ll never not love you.” 

Dean whines, high and desperate, in the back of his throat. “Cas, please.” His hips pump erratically as his fingernails bite into Castiel’s skin. Tomorrow, there will be bruises dotted across Castiel’s chest and arms. He can’t wait to see them, these liminal marks of Dean’s affection. 

“Cas, I’m close--” 

“Come for me,” Cas murmurs, tilting Dean’s head up so that he can kiss him. He tastes Dean’s cries as he comes and warmth spills over his knuckles. Castiel shudders at the feel and sound. His cock goes so far as to give a valiant stir against his thigh. 

Dean’s kisses turn lazy and slow, his lips traveling an irregular path over Castiel’s lips down to his chin. “Fucking hell,” he finally breathes, a dazed smile tugging at his lips. “The mouth on you.” 

“You’ll like it more when it’s on you,” Castiel says idly, not realizing exactly what he’s promising until the words are out of his mouth. When Dean stiffens, Castiel looks down, the tips of his ears burning hot. 

It isn’t until Dean’s laugh rumbles out that Castiel relaxes. “You’re not wrong,” Dean says, shifting until his chin rests on Castiel’s chest. His eyes glimmer in the darkness as he stares at Castiel. “I meant what I said, though. When we get back to the bunker, I’m going to lay you out and spend hours over you. I’m going to touch every single part of you, until all you can feel is me.” 

Heat floods Castiel’s cheeks--he’s been found out, his desire for Dean’s touch branded on his forehead as clearly as a letter--but he can’t care about that. Not now, when Dean kisses him so softly and gently. 

“And about the other thing you said,” Dean murmurs against his lips. Castiel casts his mind back; he said quite a few things there towards the end. But he’s not foolish, there’s only one thing which Dean could mean. 

_ I’ll never not love you.  _

“You know I feel the same, right? I mean, hell Cas...you’re it for me. You know that.” 

Castiel didn’t, not truly, not until that moment. However, having heard it now, he can almost believe it. 

Castiel saves himself from having to reply by kissing Dean. He places tiny little pecks over Dean’s cheeks and forehead, finally dipping his head down to capture Dean’s lips. He relishes in the play of Dean’s lips against his, all the while marveling that this is what his existence has come to. That he’s allowed to lie here, in the same bed as Dean, that he’s allowed to thoughtlessly caress Dean’s body, that Dean’s casually possessive hands rove over his own body, sparking devotion through Castiel wherever they light. 

“We’ve gotta get out of these boxers,” Dean eventually mumbles, pulling his hips back. “Otherwise, it’s going to be hell in the morning.” 

Castiel has no practical experience in this area, so he’s more than willing to acquiesce to Dean’s expertise. He’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Dean bare before him. That’s nothing compared to his anticipation at feeling Dean’s hands skimming over the skin of his flanks and thighs. Castiel represses a shiver, but Dean still feels it. 

“Come on, big boy,” Dean says. Without further ado, his hands tug at the waistband of Castiel’s boxers. “Get ‘em off.” 

The bed is too narrow for two full grown men to grapple like this, but he and Dean persist. Dean rolls his boxers off, his fingers skimming along Castiel’s hips in a deliberate tease. Castiel’s skin warms, something from the heat of Dean’s eyes seeping through. “Just wait,” Dean tells him, his voice full of dark promise. His fingertips skim over Castiel’s thigh, drifting over the soft skin of his inner thigh. 

“I could say the same to you,” Castiel reminds Dean, as he rolls Dean’s boxers over the swell of his ass. He drags his nails over the skin, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to have Dean’s breath catching in his throat. “I have every intention of spreading you out on the bed and worshipping you as it should be done.” 

As an angel, Castiel is intimately aware with each and every definition and variation of worship. He’s excited to show Dean exactly how they differ. 

He and Dean settle back into the bed. Their bodies slot easily against each other, Dean curling into Castiel’s body. One of Dean’s legs worms its way between Castiel’s knees, tangling them together. “I can’t wait to get back home,” Dean murmurs. His hand rests in the dip of Castiel’s waist, thumb stroking over Castiel’s skin. 

“Likewise.” It might be greedy of him, but Castiel allows himself to drown in these tiny touches and small caresses. He kisses Dean, feeling daring for stealing so much of him. But it seems that, no matter how many touches he steals from Dean, Dean just offers him more. 

“I’m going to take such good care of you. You’re everything Cas, you know that, right?” 

Castiel’s chest expands, beyond breathing, beyond reason, until there’s nothing left but  _ love.  _ He pulls Dean closer, ducking his head to bury his nose in Dean’s hair. “You’re utterly perfect,” he tells Dean, and feels Dean’s immediate shiver of rejection. “You are. You’re perfect, and brilliant, and  _ mine.”  _ He whispers the last words with all the fierceness he possesses and delights in the full body shudder they produce. 

“Gotta stop that,” Dean finally says, weakly. “You’re going to get something started, and I ain’t as young as I used to be.” 

Castiel presses a last, lingering kiss to Dean’s forehead. “We have time.” The truth of the words sinks into his body, filling him with bright joy. “We have time,” he repeats. 

With the promise of those words beating in his veins, he falls asleep, never once losing his hold upon Dean. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr and see what all the madness is about, then you can do so [here](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I'm usually fun and sometimes I yell about stuff. 
> 
> much love, doth


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